“Could be,” said Abrams. “Why should they have to work on a Tuesday after a three-day weekend? Why not just send their baggage back to town on the big gray bus, and send a dozen minibuses in empty?”
“Well, we don’t know the buses were empty, Abrams.”
“She knew.”
“Yeah… Okay, so maybe most of the Russkies are hiding out in Glen Cove. Okay, they want everybody to think they’re all back at ground zero here. So, okay, when does la bomba drop, Abrams?”
Abrams remained silent for some time, then said, “Am I being paranoid?”
Spinelli, too, let some time pass before he answered in a subdued tone, “No. This stinks. I’ll make a quick verbal report. Anything else new besides World War Three?”
“No, that’s about it. Slow night. How about you, Dom?”
“Well, I have a few things for you… I don’t know how important they are anymore.”
Abrams could hear a definite edge of anxiety in his voice. “Go on, Dom.”
Spinelli cleared his throat. “Well, this guy West did a vanish. Two-dozen fucking people watching his ass and he’s gone. This guy O’Brien is still missing. Autopsy on the pilot shows the back of his skull fractured, probably with a rubber club. What else…? Oh, Arnold Brin’s death. The ME says murder. And you’re still alive.”
“Right.” Abrams looked at Katherine. She made no pretense of not listening; there was no reason to feign polite disinterest when the subject was Armageddon and the time was now.
Spinelli added, “Also, you called for a book at the main library. The Odyssey. I didn’t know you read Greek, much less owned a library card. You want to tell me about that?”
“It’s by Homer.”
“Who gives a shit?” Spinelli could be heard drawing on a cigar, then said, “Look, Abrams, I can see this is out of my league. I can’t get anywhere with the FBI, CIA, State Department intelligence, or even you. Everybody is asking me things, but nobody is telling me anything. So who cares?” Spinelli let out a long breath. “Look, if there’s anything I can do, call me. See you later, Abrams.”
“Right.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s not as bad as it sounds, Dom. Thanks.” He hung up, then turned slowly to Katherine, who was looking at him attentively.
She said, “I caught the drift of that.”
Abrams nodded.
“They’re all next door.”
“Most of them. A few sacrifices went back to Manhattan.”
“My God… ” She stood and walked quickly to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. She said softly, “I wish Pat O’Brien were here.”
Abrams replied, “I think O’Brien would be the first to say we’d done all we could.”
“Yes, I think we are past the time for planning, development, and intelligence gathering. We’re in the operations stage, whether we’re ready or not. I think perhaps it’s time for Marc Pembroke. I think it’s time we paid a visit next door.”
52
A taxi from Kennedy Airport to this part of Long Island was difficult enough to find on a holiday evening, Ann Kimberly thought. And, one having been found, it was harder to believe anything more coincidental than sharing the taxi with a Russian whose destination was also Dosoris Lane, albeit the Iron Curtain end of the street.
Ann crossed her legs and openly regarded the young Russian on the far side of the seat. He was very good-looking, she thought, with curly auburn hair, long eyelashes, hazel eyes, and a cupid bow mouth.
She had noticed him on the Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt, and they had both wound up at the special passport-control desk, avoiding both the baggage claim and customs. They’d then hurried out to the taxi stand, he arriving first. She had watched him out of curiosity, professional and personal, as he approached a few cabbies. But he seemed to be having trouble finding a taker. Then he’d unluckily approached one of the Soviet Jewish emigrés who seemed to predominate in the long-haul cab business. The Jewish cabbie had seized the opportunity to vent some venom in his native tongue, and looked as if he were working himself up to striking the young Russian.
Ann had stepped in to rescue the Russian and after some conversation had discovered that they had the same destination. She had finally gotten a cab and escorted the hesitant man into it.
As she watched him now, she made some observations: Like her, he had no luggage with him, but that might not be significant — his things might have been shipped through the diplomatic pouches. He had an overnight bag of an unfortunate red vinyl, and an attaché case of good pigskin. Government issue. Her own overnight bag said Vuitton, though that meant nothing to him, and her government attaché case was not high-quality leather. He, she assumed, was going to Dosoris Lane to speak to his people; she was going to speak to hers.
They had made some perfunctory and necessary conversation at the outset of their journey, mostly regarding the necessity of sharing a taxi. Then he had retreated into a defensive sort of silence.
She said in slow but passable Russian, “Have you been to Glen Cove before?”
He looked at her, smiled nervously, and nodded.
She said, “Are you staying long in America?”
He seemed to weigh his answer carefully, as if the question were important. He finally replied in studied English, “I will work here.”
“I work in Munich.”
“Ah.”
She wondered why he hadn’t been met, though that was not too unusual. Since the Russian staff cars were almost always followed by the FBI, this was a way to get couriers in and out of the country without too much attention. The passport-control officer at Kennedy would alert the FBI to a Russian diplomatic passport, of course, but she hadn’t noticed anyone following.
Ann Kimberly regarded the Russian’s attaché case lying in his lap. There was no doubt in her mind that whatever was in there was very high-grade stuff. She counted it a personal victory that the Soviets did not feel they could broadcast everything over the radio. Their codes were good, but not that good. She said to the Russian, “It’s very warm here.”
He replied, “Very humid.”
She almost laughed at the banality of the exchange. “Washington is worse. Munich is more pleasant.”
“Yes.”
His taciturn behavior, she decided, was a combination of traditional Russian suspicion, bureaucratic reserve, and the shyness of a young man who finds himself in the forced company of an older and more sophisticated woman.
She said, “I was in Moscow once. Leningrad twice. Where are you from?”
The young man looked unhappy at these questions. It must have occurred to him, she thought, as it had occurred to her, that this chance meeting had the look of a setup. Yet, it wasn’t. At least not on her part. The Russian replied, “I am from Saratov.”
She nodded. “On the Volga.”
His eyes widened just a bit, she noticed, then he turned toward the window. She found she couldn’t take her eyes off his attaché case, and she had noticed him glancing at her case also. She reflected that an attractive man and woman sharing a cab shouldn’t keep looking at each other’s attaché case. She smiled.
The Russian craned his neck to take in the passing scenery. He glanced at his watch.
Ann Kimberly looked ahead and saw the traffic beginning to slow. On the horizon she saw skyrockets arching into the air. She reached over and tapped the Russian, and he turned with a start, one hand coming down on the attaché case. She pointed out the front windshield, unable to remember the Russian word for fireworks. “A celebration. A day to honor the dead of all wars. Like your May ninth Victory Day.”
He seemed distressed rather than pleased at her familiarity with his language and country. He smiled tightly. “Yes. A celebration today.”